


Dancing

by draculard



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Background Batjokes, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensually Violent Relationships, F/F, Possibly Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 23:32:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18398588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Mr. J has his little crush on the Bat. Maybe it's only natural for Harley to feel this way about Robin.





	Dancing

There’s a blade against Carrie’s throat and wide blue eyes staring down into hers. There’s a closed fist pressed against Harley’s collar bone, ready to snap it at a moment’s notice, and unfamiliar red hair glinting in the light.

“You’re not Robin,” Harley says. She isn’t thinking, of course — because this  _ has _ to be Robin. It’s a kid in a green booty shorts following Batman around, doing flips and throwing punches. Who else would it be?

But anyway, it’s the wrong thing to say, because suddenly Harley’s knife has been twisted out of her hand and before she can even try to get it back, a heavy boot lands square in her chest (ouch) and sends her flying backward. 

Her head hits a wall. Does anyone care? Nope. Mr. J is still hollering with laughter as he evades Batman’s punches, and the little red-haired Robin is strutting toward Harley with a grin on her face. She crouches down as Harley groans and feels the bump on her head.

“You were saying?” says Robin.

* * *

Maybe it’s just nervousness, but any time Harley sees Batman coming for her with the girl Robin by his side, her heart leaps. Mr. J has his little crush on the Bat; maybe it’s only natural for Harley to feel this way, too.

Robin’s legs are long and tan and muscular. Her hair is almost always gelled up like a mohawk, and it’s even oranger than Ivy’s. When she gets close enough to Harley — almost always when she’s tying her up after a fight — Harley can see the pink lip gloss on her lips and smell the flavor of it.

Strawberry.

Afterward, in her cell, she cherishes the bruises on her wrists, the abrasions where Robin pulled the rope too tight. She stares out the glass walls and kisses her broken skin and imagines that Robin is there to kiss them for her, imagines she can taste that strawberry lip gloss instead of just smelling it. The shrinks at Arkham see her cradling her wrists, treasuring every scrape and contusion, and they think Mr. J did that to her.

_ You have to understand this isn’t healthy, _ they say.

_ You deserve someone who doesn’t hurt you, _ they say. 

When they march her past Mr. J’s cell on the way back to her own, her eyes meet his, and they share a crooked, sardonic smile. His wrists are bruised, too.

She wonders if they’ve been telling him the same thing.

* * *

Mr. J killed a Robin once — a boy who was taller than the first one but not as athletic, who balked at the campy uniform and insisted on wearing actual pants to fight in, who never pulled his punches.

That Robin wound up tied with rope and beaten with a crowbar. Harley remembers because Mr. J told her all about it. She remembers because there was something off about his tone, and she couldn’t tell if he was bragging or venting, and she wasn’t sure whether the story disgusted or excited her, either, whether she was proud of him or ashamed.

But most importantly, she remembers how Mr. J looked at that Robin when he was still alive — dismissive, irritated. That Robin was a tag-along, a nuisance, an intruder on Mr. J’s dances with the Bat.

Harley knows that look well. She’s been giving it to the Bat. 

* * *

Every kick, every collision of Robin’s skin on hers, matters to Harley. When Robin’s fist smashes into her cheekbone, it sends a wave of numbing pain across her face. When Harley snags a handful of Robin’s hair and pulls it free, it may as well be a kiss, and Robin’s shout of agony may as well be a moan.

They dance together, and Batman and Mr. J dance parallel to them, but each couple is in its own separate world. For Harley, it’s a world of vibrant pinks and reds, of soft lips and callused fingers and swinging fists, of strawberries and bruises.

She can’t say what kind of world it is for Robin. She doesn’t even know Robin’s name. 

But when Harley is knocked on her back, when Robin is straddling her with one knee on either side of Harley’s waist, when their hips are pressed together and Robin’s hands are on her wrists—

That’s when Robin smiles at her, an open, unfettered smile. A smile of joy and adrenaline and momentary understanding.

And Harley returns it, and their worlds, for just a second, become one. 


End file.
